


A Drop of Life | Tyler Joseph

by riddlespeaks



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Addict With A Pen, Anxiety, Band Fic, Based on a Twenty One Pilots Song, Bipolar Disorder, Christianity, Depression, Doubt, Fear of Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Music, Internal Conflict, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Music, Origin Story, Panic Attacks, Psychological Drama, Psychological Torture, Religious Conflict, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Songwriting, Suicidal Thoughts, Thriller, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddlespeaks/pseuds/riddlespeaks
Summary: Over a year following the near-tragedy of his mental breakdown in the woods, 21-year-old Tyler Joseph seeks professional help for his depression and suicidal thoughts. When he struggles to write a song and his medication still fails to pull through, he wonders if therapy - and life itself - are truly worth the trouble.





	

**Author's Note:**

> origin of "Addict With a Pen" lyrics, by twenty one pilots.
> 
> [this fanfic may require reading the previous fanfic "Hello..." for full comprehension.]

“So, although I am fairly certain due to the answers on the surveys you filled out last time we met, I must ask you,” the middle-aged, soft-spoken man stated warmly as he pushed his glasses further back up his nose, “why are you here, today?”

The nineteen-year-old Tyler Joseph sat quietly in thought on the recliner before this man, wringing his hands of nervous perspiration in anticipation of this first actual meeting with a psychiatrist. Sharing his emotions was hard enough to do on paper, more less in person, and with a total stranger. This wasn’t going to be easy, and he knew that. In the end, however, he knew it was ask going to get better. It would pay off. He could feel it in his bones.

“I ask myself that same question quite often,” the boy finally uttered, stating down into his lap at his jittery hands, playing with his fingers comfortingly. “I guess, in a way, that’s why I’m here.”

“Ah, existential crises, is that right?” the jolly man said, smiling kindly despite the obvious dismay ad discomfort of the boy and his situation. “Let me start by saying you are certainly not alone in that mental conflict. I have had many a patient explain this same issue to me, and interestingly enough, they are typically within your age range, as well.”

Tyler, unsure of where to go from that, remained silent in his rather comfortable seat on the fully furnished couch. His eyes darted to the right, examining the abundance of psychological journals and books on the doctor's shelf. Textbooks, studies, academic journals, etc. This man was obviously very passionate about his career choice, and, even in his shyness, Tyler admired that.

“But in any case,” the psychologist continued, “we must agree and understand exactly where that sense of purposeful dread stems from and what we can do to sort of combat that feelings of pointlessness. Let’s start by taking a look at your psychological profile that you so kindly filled out for me.”

The doctor reached into the leather messenger bag next to his chair and dug out a clipboard and paper with a pen attached, along with a black folder featuring the office's title printed in white along the cover. He flipped through the folder and removed a piece of print paper, which Tyler assumed to be the questionnaire he turned in the first and last short meeting he had with his doctor. The man's eyes quickly scanned the page as he analyzed the profile one last short time. Tyler waited patiently, scavenging his brain for answers to the possible questions his doctor would have in store for him. His nerves were racked and bundled, but on the outside, he kept completely calm, though noticeably shaken.

"Now, this survey was created by professionals to detect up to 13 different mental disorders, including post-trauma and schizophrenia, which you may be relieved to know was not part of your screening results," the doctor explained. "You did, however, seem to answer positively on questions that involved depressive and anxious behavior, which could be a number of things." He pushed the paper slightly off to the side and picked up his pen. "This is where I start asking questions, and it's really important that you answer these as accurately and honestly as you can for me to help you, okay?"

"I'll try my best," Tyler muttered sheepishly under his anxious breath.

"Great!" exclaimed the doctor cheerfully. Again, the intense passion he had for what he was doing was radiant. It almost made Tyler forget that he was here because of his anxiety attacks. "Now, us doctors have to get a little personal to get to the real root of anybody's problems. It is only to understand what exactly has caused your brain to function that way that it does, especially when the cognitive behavior is abnormal. Let's start with family. What does yours consist of?"

"I have two brothers, a sister, and my mom and dad," Tyler replied.

"What a family! And you all live together?"

"Yeah. We all have our own space, though. The house is sort of big."

"That's good! Are your mother and father still married?"

"Yes."

"Are they happily married, would you say?"

"I would think so. I can't really say for sure, but, they seem pretty happy together. They hardly ever fight, at least not in front of us."

"Alright, alright. Awesome," the doctor muttered, scribbling away at the lined, wide-ruled paper clipped to the clipboard in his lap. "Do all of you get along, parents included?"

"We get along better than a lot of families probably do," Tyler explained again. "Of course, there are times when we all have our differences, sure, but in the end, we resolve those differences. I try my best to be a good brother and a good son. None of us ever really get into trouble or anything."

"So, I don't suppose you would consider your home life the problem, would you?"

"Not really," Tyler answered. "It's more of an alone thing. You know, like, in my head, I guess."

"What goes on in your head, Tyler?" the doctor nodded as he fixed the position of his wiry gray glasses once more over his pastel green eyes. "I'm very interested to know."

"Well..." Tyler stalled, still remarkably unprepared for the question that he had known for over a week was going to be asked. He could write about his feelings in his notebooks all day in the form of poetry, short stories, and potential songs, but something about audible vocalization, especially to another person, was incredibly intimidating and terrifying. Opening up had never been an easy thing for Tyler, and he doubted that it ever would be, but he longed for recovery. He needed to get better.

"It's a loaded question, I know," the doctor assured him. "Please do understand that I am a professional. I am trained to deal with a lot of emotional turmoil and mental distress with people of all ages, sizes, and colors. So, when I ask you these questions, please, do make yourself comfortable. I am sure you are not and will not be the worst patient I'll ever have in my lifetime." He laughed light-heartedly. "Give me your worst, Tyler."

Tyler was relieved at his words, although he really had not told him anything he wasn't already aware of. He knew better than to assume that a professional psychologist and psychiatrist was going to judge him or condemn him in any way, but doubt has always been the boy's best friend, and his insecurities always got the best of him. Something about hearing those words from his doctor opened that social doorway, though, and now, Tyler thought he might be ready to talk.

And he did. They both did, for over an hour, easily. And, surprisingly, it was Tyler that did most of the talking. He explained his anxiety attacks, what (possibly) causes them, what he thought about when he was feeling anxious, his feelings of depression and purposelessness, and even his suicidal thoughts. He did not, however, talk about his incident in the forest, where his contemplations almost became a grim reality, and even longer before that, where he inflicted pain on his own body to calm his nerves. He wasn't quite ready to talk about that just yet. He wasn't sure when he would be ready, either.  
________________________________________________________

"Well, Tyler," the doctor finally sighed, looking down at the digital clock on the small end table next to him, "we've certainly done a lot of talking today, moreso than I imagined for this one meeting. I assure you that every meeting we have will not last so long. But, it has been a pleasure getting to know you."

"Thank you, sir," Tyler said solemly. "Er, well, doctor. Doctor, uh, Wells, is it?"

"Call me Steve," the man responded gently. "But, yes, Wells it is.

"Ah, right. Steve..."

"At any rate, we shall end this appointment on a hopeful note. That requires me asking yet another question, if you do not mind."

"Oh, yeah. Go ahead."

Dr. Wells stroked his sandy blonde facial hair, glancing down at his papers for just a moment before looking back up to face Tyler. "Would you be interested in taking any medication for your depression and anxiety?"

Tyler was, once again, taken aback by something he was totally expecting. Medication was a topic that had been pestering him ever since he decided to make the call to the institute, and even now, weeks later, he was left without an answer. On one hand, he thought the medicine could definitely help him by lifting him out of this dark hole of existence he had become trapped in and offer hope for the future. On the other hand, he was horrified at the idea of addiction, or even dependency, and also the possibility of his parents finding out how bad off he truly was, mentally. It was a tough decision with pros and cons on either side, and he had yet to take the time to properly weigh out those possibilities. But now, his doctor wanted an answer that he did not yet have. What was he supposed to say in the mean time?

"I can see you're still a bit unsure," Dr. Wells spoke in an effort to break the intense silence. Tyler was too busy caught up in his own worries and fears that he had forgotten that he was still, in fact, having a conversation with someone that was awaiting his reply. The boy simply nodded his head in agreement with the doctor's words.

"Hey, that's okay!" the doctor said. "Being medicated for mood disorders like these is a big decision if you have never succumbed to that sort of thing before. Most people do need time to think it out, and I am allotting that to you."

Tyler sighed with relief.

"However," Dr. Wells continued, "I would highly recommend that you at least consider taking medication. I'm sure you have heard of the misconceptions involving addiction and overdosing, and I'll have you know that, the majority of the time, that is just simply untrue. I would start you out on a low dosage of an inexpensive anti-depressant with little to no side effects and no withdrawal symptoms. No withdrawal symptoms means that, if you decided to take the medication, then later decided it wasn't for you, then you could literally stop taking it cold turkey, and your body would not suffer for it. There would be virtually nothing for you to lose."

As helpful as Dr. Wells' information was, and as insightful as he was being, Tyler was still uncertain, though he did nod his head to ensure his doctor that he had absorbed the information. "Okay," Tyler whimpered, finally. "I'll definitely think about it, this week."

"Good! Please do consider it!" Dr. Wells said joyfully as he rose to his feet from the recliner across the room. Tyler copied his actions and stood, as well.

With a hop in his step, Dr. Wells walked closer to Tyler, shaking his hand. "Glad to meet you, Tyler Joseph. I'll be seeing you again, next week, yes?"

"Yes," said Tyler. "Next Thursday, 2 o'clock."

"Great! I'll see you then!" Dr. Wells opened the door to his quiet, private office, motioning that it was okay now for Tyler to leave. "Just go down that hallway and let the staff up there know that me and you are on for that exact date and time, alright?"

"Can do, doc," Tyler mumbled, not out of rudeness or disinterest, but out of shyness. "See ya next time."

"Mhm! Goodbye, Tyler!"

The door clicked behind Tyler as he pulled it shut slowly. Well, he thought to himself as he made his way down the narrow corridor of the mental health unit. That was easier than I expected. Before leaving the institute entirely, Tyler made sure to stop by the front office and schedule his next appointment with Dr. Steve Wells. He was actually looking forward to Thursday, to his surprise.  
______________________________________________________

"Oh, hi, Ty!" his mother welcomed him as he walked through the front door, the glass screen door rattling slightly as it closed behind him. "Back from the park, already?"

Tyler hadn't told his mother about the appointment he made. He couldn't. He was sure it would break her heart, or, even worse, she would be disappointed in him. It was better that she didn't get involved, for her own sake. So, instead, he told her that he went out to play basketball with some friends at the local park.

"Oh, yeah," he stuttered ever so slightly. "A lot of the kids had to go home and finish up some homework or something for a class. I guess they're giving speeches tomorrow, or, whatever."

"Lucky you for not having any, I guess!" his mother sang happily as she stood in the kitchen. "Hey, I'm making chicken casserole for dinner per your brother's request, and it'll be ready in about fifteen minutes, if you're hungry."

"Yeah, I might eat later," Tyler called as he walked up the stairs toward his room. "Thanks, Mom."

"Okay!" she called back. "I'll call you when it's ready!"

Tyler neglected to respond as he strut into his bedroom and closed his door, and, soon after, collapsing face first onto his bed. He needed some time alone after his longer meeting with Dr. Wells, especially taking into consideration just the kind of talk they had. But he didn't want to spend his alone time just sitting and thinking, so, he sat up, grabbed his laptop, and booted it up. It wasn't a piece of work or anything; just a regular Windows laptop with the standard RAM and core processor. He did a lot of work on this laptop, though. A lot of creative work, inspired by the journals he carried around with him.

He opened up his iTunes account, scrolled down to the T's, and there it was. Song after song after song that he had produced in the little amateur studio that he and his parents set up in the basement when he was about seventeen years old. He was a piano guy, mainly, although he had strummed around on a guitar and a bass a few times before. Music, while he loved it dearly, was still such a new concept to him, especially the digital beats and electronic sound that he realized was part of the songwriting process. Simply performing a song beside of actually producing and enhancing the song using technology was just such a foreign world to him. He wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it.

He named the album "No Phun Intended", which, at the time, he thought was hilariously ironic, but it now struck him as corny and pretentious. The songs, in his opinion, were cringe-worthy at best, both musically and lyrically, with the exception of a few that he really and truly enjoyed even today. "Trees" was a song he started the album with, yet he finished it very last. He found that odd, since the song itself had very little words to it that just recurred again and again to fit the music, but either way, it was one of his favorites, for sure.

He thought it was funny, too, that, for the artist of each song, he just put "Tyler Joseph". Granted, that was and still is his name, but he remembered typing it for the first time and really feeling accomplished, feeling important. He wanted to feel that way again, and, truth be told, he really wanted to write music again. But the motivation and imagination required to compose music was just not in him, right now. It was unfortunate, because creating something and being able to share it with others really gave him that sense of purpose. It was one of the only things on this earth that COULD give him purpose, and yet, it was such a hard thing for him, most of the time.

 _Such is life for Tyler Joseph_ , he thought to himself in annoyance.

__________________________________________________

"So, you're a musician?" Dr. Wells asked in reassurance as he and Tyler met once more on the expected date.

"Well, I wouldn't say that I am one," Tyler confirmed. "But, I do love making music. Or making anything, for that matter, whether it be poems or stories or songs, whatever."

"Ah, a creative mind!" Dr. Wells grinned with his clenched, white teeth. "Riddle me this, if you like: What is it about art and creation that draws in the people like you and I? That piques the interest of those of us that are in mental distress?"

Tyler had never thought of it like that, but it was a question he was certainly determined to challenge.

"Well, okay, like..." He took a moment to think before speaking. "I think it's because, you know, we all long for that sense of purpose. Everybody wants to feel like they have purpose, whether they're depressed or not. But, for some of us, I guess, finding that sense of purpose is harder than it should be." Tyler twiddled his thumbs on his thighs.

"So," the boy sighed, "we have to go out and create that purpose for ourselves. We have to go out, find it, and hold it tightly. Maybe, when you create something, you feel that purpose. Because, without you, ya know, that thing wouldn't exist. In a sense, you... brought something to life. And that gives you purpose."

For once, Dr. Wells was silent, extremely invested in what Tyler was saying, intruiged by how remarkably bright he was to be just under twenty years old. The doctor knew where he was coming from, though, having already explained to his patient that he, like many other psychiatric evaluators, was also on anti-depressants. It encouraged Tyler to see the doctor so happy and interested, knowing that he, too, was a sufferer of depression, yet, was still able to put a smile on his face. It gave him hope.

"That's a pretty specific explanation, Tyler," Dr. Wells praised him. "But, I definitely agree with you. I think that art, music, literature, things like that, can really pull people like you and me out of the dark. And that goes for other things, too, like sports or clubs or religion. I also think that it helps bring people together to form communities and subcultures, and, because of that, people get a sense of belonging. Belonging and purpose really go hand in hand, you see."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Tyler scratched his head. "You know, you mentioned religion very briefly there, and it got me thinking, for a second."

"About what?" asked Dr. Wells.

"I have a lot of problems with what I believe in, spiritually speaking," Tyler explained. "I don't know what you believe, and I know you're required to kind of keep that out of the picture for the sake of your job, but, I like to believe in something, anything. Like, God, maybe, but, I'm still unsure."

"I see," the wise doctor nodded knowingly. "Does your family believe in anything like that?"

"Oh, yeah. My entire family, actually. My father coaches a basketball team for a private Christian school that I went to when I was way younger, and we all as a family attend our church on a pretty regular basis."

"So there's a bit of pressure there, huh?"

"Kind of, I guess? Like, they don't really 'pressure' me into believing as much as they just assume that I have no doubts in my faith," Tyler went on, using his fingers to emphasize the quotations around the word 'pressure'. "And like, I get that. They have no reason to think I have any issue with it, because frankly, I don't talk about it. I don't really like to talk about it with them, because I'm afraid they would just worry or freak out about it."

"Well, Tyler. What do you think you believe?"

"I think..." Tyler paused. "I think, maybe, there is a God up there, but, for some reason, I can't hear him. I don't feel him. My beliefs tell me that he is there, watching and listening, but sometimes, I just don't know. And it really, just, pisses me off..."

"Do you think, perhaps, you have trouble finding your purpose because you are unsure of what the purpose of anything is? Because you're so uncertain of what keeps this world turning, and, until you feel like you have a concrete answer, you don't know how to continue your journey?"

"...Exactly," Tyler agreed. "It's like... like, think about trying to dig a hole in the sand, like, at the beach, or something. With just your bare hands, no shovels or anything. It's hard, isn't it? Because the sand just, it refills itself over and over again as you just keep digging."

His artsy side of himself was shining brightly as he spoke. "But, I guess, it isn't so much of a beach, because the beach is fun, there's people, there's life, there's water. Let's say, maybe, a desert. So there's just, all this sand, and no water. Let's say the water is, like, purpose, okay? And, I'm just stuck in this desert, running around with what little water I've managed to find in my hands. And, like I said earlier about the sand, my feet just keep getting stuck in it as I try to run over it, and I'm just holding onto this water - this purpose - for dear life. Yet, it always slips right through my fingers. The sand slows me down, and the water just drains..."

"Tyler, you are just too imaginative for your own good." Dr. Wells smiled, still gazing at Tyler as he had been the entire time his mouth was open, soaking up every word he was saying like a dry sponge. "As far as your beliefs go, I cannot speak for that, and I do have my own beliefs that we might not share. And that's okay. Not everyone shares the same beliefs, and the fact of the matter is that none of us can be entirely sure until we're long gone."

Tyler remained silent. It was his turn to listen.

"But, what I recommend, Tyler, is that everything that you have just told me, you write it down. You say you like to keep journals and write and all of that. So, maybe, next time you're feeling this particular way again, asking yourself all these questions in the early morning hours, perhaps, you can use it for the greater good. Take that negative feeling within you and use it to channel some sort of creative wind in your brain. Use it to fuel your imagination. Turn it into positive energy, and create something." The doctor flashed another thoughtful smile at him. "Let your thoughts paint pictures."

Tyler merely reminisced on his words, remembering them and taking heed to them. Dr. Wells truly earned his degree, that's for sure, and Tyler was more than aware of that.

"But, to end this session, I would like to ask you one more question. And I think you know what that question is."

"Yes," Tyler answered abruptly.

"So, again, what is your-"

"Yes," Tyler just spat once more. "I mean, yes. I would like to try medication."

Dr. Wells, raising his eyebrows and smiling widely, looked down at his clipboard and began writing out a prescription. Tyler anxiously went on to give him the information to his pharmacy.

And with that, Tyler Joseph was now a diagnosed sufferer of clinical depression and anxiety disorder, with a prescription of 100 milligrams of sertraline a day. He would begin his medication tomorrow once he picked up the pills from the pharmacy.

This will certainly be interesting, he thought as he hopped into his car and drove out of the institute's reserved parking lot. Maybe there's hope for me, afterall.

_______________________________________________

( _I try my best to run through the sand, holding onto the water I have in my hand_ )

"Yeah, that's fine, but maybe I should just change this, to this, and then..."

 _(I try desperately to run through the sand, holding onto the water in the palm of my hand_ )

"Okay, that's a little better..."

Tyler Joseph sat in his studio, staring at the journal entry he had written shortly after the appointment with Dr. Wells. He wrote down the metaphor of sand and water while it was in his memory, and now, he was attempting to turn his words into a poem, and his poem into a song. The bench creaked as he adjusted himself in front of the piano that his mother had given him some years ago. It had been a while since he last touched it, and because he was self-taught, he had lost his luster just a bit. But hopefully, he could quickly pick back up where he left off in order to make this music and find his purpose. Maybe.

His fingers danced wanderingly on the keys, playing whatever came to mind and what sounded right, and what he felt would flow nicely with his words. He was known for simple, but catchy piano medleys, and tonight, that sounded fitting. The song needed a somber sound, though, as it represented a somber time in his life, so he focused primarily on minor chords and notes. He glanced at his journal again.

"It feels like I'm constantly running through a desert," he said to himself, reading the portion of the journal out loud. "The desert, dry and unforgiving, tries to swallow me up in the sand. There is no sign of water in sight, though I am holding a very small amount of cool, refreshing water in my hands. This water is my purpose. It is what keeps me alive and sane. And, as I'm trying to escape this harsh environment, the water continues to slip and slide right out of my palms. The sand, of course, soaks up the water, and now, it appears, my purpose is lost, yet again. If only I could find more water..."

Tyler played around with the keys on his piano once more, humming an original melody and trying to attach some of the words of his entry to the music. Slowly, he was piecing things together.

( _I try desperately to run through the sand as I hold the water in the palm of my hand_.)

 _That sounds really good. That flow is nice_ , he thought.

"...it's all that I have, and it's all that I need..." he mumbled in thought.

"Tyler?" his mother's voice called through the door as she knocked on it softly. "Are you in there?"

Tyler jumped slightly at the sound of her presence, startled. "Oh, uh," Tyler stammered. "Yeah, Mom. I'm just playing my piano, that's all."

"Oh, okay..." She was sensing something was up, but she pushed it to the back of her mind, assuming it to be paranoia. "Well, your father and I are going to bed. I was just going to tell you goodnight."

Tyler, sort of tired and out of ideas himself, stood from his bench, killed the lights, and opened the door. His loving, sweet mother stood in front of it, watching him leave the studio. "Okay," he said. "I'll probably hit the hay myself, soon."

"Alright, well..." His mother pulled him in, embracing him tightly. "I love you. Sweet dreams, okay?"

"Okay, Mom," he replied, hugging her back. "I love you, too. 'Night."

She tustled his hair and smiled at him before disappearing back upstairs and down the hallway into her bedroom. Tyler forced himself to climb up two flights of stairs up to his room on the second story. As he changed into his sleepwear, he stopped for just a moment to take a look outside of his window, where the bright, full moon gleamed at him iradescently. He admired the sight even as he sat down on the edge of his bed.

"The waves of the water..." he muttered, before lying down and covering himself up, then falling into a halfway peaceful sleep.

__________________________________________________

"Are you afraid of hurting yourself, Tyler?"

The question was simple, but the answer, not so much. Despite its complexity, Tyler was well aware of the answer to the question, but whether or not he wanted to be honest was beyond him. He thought this as he looked down at the lines on his arms, barely visible to probably anybody else, but clearly apparent to himself. He touched the healed skin and shuddered.

"Sometimes," he finally replied.

"So, you have had urges in the past to, perhaps, inflict pain on yourself?" Dr. Wells clarified.

"I guess you could say that," said Tyler, growing increasingly uncomfortable about these questions and wondering where exactly this was headed.

"We've discussed before that you have suicidal thoughts," Dr. Wells remembered, "which, if you remember, does not exactly mean that you have intent to do it, nor have you necessarily attempted suicide. Up until now, I have been unsure, but now, I must ask."

Tyler gulped.

"Tyler..." Dr. Wells had a deep impression of seriousness in his tone, and, for once, he was not smiling. "Have you ever, at any point in your life, seriously contemplated suicide?"

"...yes," he answered, before he could even shut himself up.

"Have you ever seriously attempted suicide?"

Tyler was silent. A wave of memories flooded behind his eyes, and all at once, he was hit was a sea of rememberance that he thought he had locked away forever.

_'IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? ANYBODY?_   
_Anybody...'_

"...no."

"Hm. Why did you hesitate?" Dr. Wells pried even deeper.

"I was just, dazed out, is all. No, I have never attempted suicide."

Dr. Wells reclined back in his chair and readjusted his glasses. "I see..." he said sternly. "Well, nevertheless, you have had these thoughts, before. What do you typically do when you have those thoughts?"

Tyler took a moment to think. "I usually write. Or draw. Or read. Play my piano. Sometimes, I play basketball. Talk to my mom. That kind of stuff."

"Does your mother know you've been seeing me, Tyler?"

Tyler froze. "What?"

"Your mother," Dr. Wells repeated. "Does she know that you've been seeing a doctor about these issues you've been having? Does she know that you've been taking medication?"

"Oh, no," Tyler replied. "No, no. Why do you ask? Does she have to know?" He was getting slightly defensive.

"Well, no, not necessarily," said Dr. Wells. "But, I think it would help if she did. Maybe talking to her could help."

"I don't think so," Tyler huffed. "She would get worried sick. And she would probably just suggest me to pray about it, anyway. And what good does that do if I don't know where I stand?"

"I understand, but-"

"And, you know," Tyler interrupted, "in a way, I kind of enjoy the pain. Like being sad, I mean. I kind of, like to imagine myself staring out my window while it's raining. You know, just, being sad, and stuff. It's like I'm a sort of, sad character in a book or movie..."

"So, in a way, you feel that your sadness is part of you and your personality?" Dr. Wells restated briefly.

"Yes," agreed Tyler. "And, I don't want to share that with my mother. Not at all. She just... she deserves better than that."

Dr. Wells sighed in disappointment. "Well, Tyler, you are legally an adult, so, you make your own decisions. Even if you weren't, I couldn't exactly make you tell anybody anything, because it's against my oath, and I also deeply value the trust you have in me."

The torn doctor scratched his balding head. "But, if I can just make this one suggestion, I would say that, if your mother cares for you as deeply as you make it seem that she does, then I'm sure her love and support would be nothing less of caring and respectful of you. And if she worries about you, it's just because she cares for you and loves you. You are her son, afterall."

"Okay," Tyler grumbled. "Maybe..."

"But for now, Tyler, I would like for you to do this." The doctor handed him a slip of paper, upon which, written in cursive, navy ink, was a name and a number. "If you ever feel the urge to do something very harmful to yourself, whether it be self-harm, suicide, whatever, I would like for you to give me a call, okay? No matter what time it is. And if I am unavailable, I would like for you to tell your mother, or a friend, or somebody that you trust. Can you promise me that you will do this."

Tyler looked at the slip that Dr. Wells was holding in front of him, then took it hesitantly. "Yeah. I promise."

"Thank you, Tyler."

______________________________________________________

( _But I try my best, and all that I can to hold tightly onto what's left in my hand_...)

Tyler scribbled and crossed out and rewrote furiously in his journal on his piano bench, again, copying down the notes that the words sounded most fittingly with, and occasionally singing the words aloud to take note of the sound.

( _But not matter how tightly I strain, the sand slows me down, and the water drains_ )

Not as satisfying. The rhyme scheme and vocal rhythm didn't want to get along, for some reason.

 _'...perhaps, you have trouble finding your purpose because you are unsure of what the purpose of anything is...'_ The doctor's words rang in his ears. Which reminded him: he needed to take his meds.

From his pocket, he pulled out the pill bottle and examined the Rx label. 100MG of Sertraline (Zoloft) a night, prescribed by Physician and Psychiatric Specialist Dr. Steven J. Wells. He always told his friends he was a nutcase, and now, he had the pills to prove it.

Without even sipping a drink first, the nineteen-year-old boy tossed a pill in his mouth and swallowed in one go. This would make day nine since his medication was provided, and thus far, not much had really changed. Dr. Wells said it could be up to two months before the full affect of the medication took hold, so Tyler just tried to wait patiently. Until then, he would take these seemingly worthless pills as long as his doctor assured him that they would work eventually.

For the next several minutes, Tyler Joseph pressed the keys of his piano and sang unpredictably, words and pitches all over the place as he tried to find the right tune and lyric. A feeling of helpless frustration was steadily building up inside of him, until he could no longer contain his annoyance, and banged his fist angrily against the piano. The keys screamed back at him and his fist.

"GAH!" he yelled at, thankful that he was in an essentially soundproof room, since it was midnight, and his family had already retired to their bedrooms for the night. "Why can't I find it? Why can't I get the right sound?"

Feeling beaten and hopeless, Tyler rested his head on the piano keys, which, in turn, grumbled at him lowly. _Don't cry_ , he thinks to himself. _Don't cry. It's okay. Don't cry. Don't cry..._

...But he couldn't help it. Everything suddenly came crashing down on him at once. His depression. His past suicide attempts. His self-inflicting urges. His new medication. And now, his inability to write a stupid song. Nothing was working out for him. In a fit of sad rage, he jolted up from his bench and kicked it hard, causing it to fall over and thud against the thinly carpted basement floor.

"Of course! Of frickin' course!" he ranted alone. "Of course I can't write this dumb song! Why could I? I can't even decide what I want and what I think about anything! Am I just too stupid to get it?!"

Tyler picked up his bottle of pills and slung them into the wall. They rattled noisily as they fell down from the wall and onto the ground.

"And those things," he went on, "I'm almost positive they don't even do anything. Just a way for ol' Doctor Wells to make a quick buck off of me. Wouldn't surprise me one bit. Not one damn bit."

Becoming very irritated very quickly, Tyler began beating his head mercilessly against the top of his piano, shouting words that he would never dare say aloud normally. "Damn it!" he cried. "Damn it! Damn it! I can't fucking do this anymore!"

He swung his fist at the wall, meeting the surface with a bang that quaked the studio just a little. It satisfied him some, but he was still in emotional distress. And normally... normally, when he was this distressed...

_I know what will make me feel better..._

Inside his pocket was a small knife that he carried along with his wallet. It was very tiny - just an average, everyday pocket knife - but, it would do the trick, and do it nicely.

"I always said I would quit," he whispered as he jammed his hand in his pocket and gripped the tiny blade. "I know I said I would quit. I know I did. But, this doing it alone thing, this lack of a coping mechanism thing, it isn't really working for me, now, is it...?"

He pulled the knife out of his pocket and switched the blade out of its hiding place.

He had been clean for over a year now. He swore to himself that he would never do it again. He swore to God that he would never do it again. But tonight, he wasn't sure what else to do.

Except...

The metal felt cold against his wrist. He had not yet dug the blade so that it pieced his skin, but he was holding out as much as he could. He didn't want to do this, but at the same time, it's all he wanted to do. It's all he ever wanted to do. It was going to kill him one day, if he wasn't careful.

And subconsciously, that's all he ever wanted. Secretly, he hoped that that was just what happened. Maybe he hadn't healed as much as he thought he did, after all.

 _Just like a pen on paper, now_ , he thought sadistically.

Tears began to form in the eyes of poor Tyler Joseph, and he tilted his head up to the ceiling, closing his eyelids and allowing the tears to drop down his red cheeks. He opened his watery eyes again to the ceiling fan, hoping for an answer. Hoping to find his purpose. To find his... water.

He gripped the knife tightly in his fist.

"Dear God..." he muttered, a quiver in his voice as his gaze remained toward what would have been the sky had the roof not blocked his view. "I don't know where you are. I don't know if you're here. I don't even know if you're real..." Tyler choked silently. "But, if you are, please, I beg you... I want to die. I want to disappear. I want to cease to exist. But, I don't want to want that..."

Nothing but the humming of the air conditioning and the whirring of the ceiling fan made a noise.

"You're all about dying, right?" Tyler asked nobody, or somebody, or whoever. "You know about that stuff. I don't, and it scares me. And, I don't want to die. I don't like that I feel as though I want to. I don't like that I'm just so tired, all the time..."

The air was still.

"Listen..." Tyler went on. "I've been going to the doctor's, okay? And he checked my brain out, ya know? And I was filed under 'crazy, suicidal headcase', or whatever they call people like me..." His muffled crying loudened slightly into a desperate sob. "But... you can fix me, right? You can give me purpose. You can give me water..."

Silence.

"I know we haven't talked in a while. Or, well, scratch that. I haven't talked in a while. I've not been the best brother or the best son like I hope to be..." Tyler lowered his head. "But, I want to be better. I want to get better. But I'm going to need your help, okay?"

Silence, yet again.

"Okay?" Tyler called out again.

Nothing. But Tyler dropped his knife.

"I'm trusting you," he whimpered, and placed his hands back on the keys.

And it seemed as though, in the snap of a finger, the notes came naturally to him. The words fell out of his mouth perfectly in place. Whether it was God or his own raw emotional, Tyler wasn't sure, but he took advantage of the moment, anyhow.

( _Hellooo_ ) he sang. ( _We haven't talked in quite some time. I know, I haven't been the best, of sons_.)

( _Hello_ ) he said again briefly, the word haunting his memories of the past two years before he continued, ( _I've been traveling in the desert of my mind, and I, haven't found a drop, of life._ )

Tyler bounced and shook his head around as he sang, feeling the energy of the song course through his veins like a shot of espresso. _This is the one_ , he thought. _This will be the session I remember. This will be my song..._

( _Waaaaaaaaterrrrrrrrrr!_ ) he sang strongly and surely.

And the rap lick will sound good right about now, he thought quickly before singing on.

( _I try desperately to run through the sand as I_  
 _Hold the water in the palm of my hand,_  
 _'Cause it's all that I have, and it's all that I need, and_  
 _The waves of the water mean nothing to me!_  
 _But I try my best, and all that I can to_  
 _Hold tightly onto, what's left in my, hand,_  
 _But no matter how, how tightly I will strain,_  
 _The sand will slow me down, and the water will drain_.)

The emotions were abound, and Tyler could feel the raw intensity of his lyrics and music welling and bursting from within his tired body. The words shook the inside of his skull and forced their way out of his mouth, and the fact that those words happened to flow decently well together and rhyme perfectly was entirely coincidence. He was only singing and screaming his situation, his emotions, his life, and this was the song it sang.

( _I'm just being dramatic, in fact, I'm only at it, again,_  
 _As..._ )

_'Just like a pen on paper, now...'_

( _...an addict with a pen, who's addicted to the wind_  
 _As it blows me back and forth, mindless, spineless, and pretend..._ )

_Will this ever end?_

( _Of course, I'll be here again, see you tomorrow, but it's the end_  
 _Of today, end of my ways, as..._ )

_'I was just, dazed out, is all...'_

( _...a walking denial,_  
 _My trial was filed as a crazy, suicidal headcase!_ )

Tyler was screaming at this point of the rap, busting at the seam with emotion.

( _...But you specialize in dying, you hear me screaming, 'Father!'_  
 _And I'm lying here just crying, so wash me with your WATER!_ )

He continued banging the catchy tune into the piano, stomping his left foot and banging his head to the beat. He imagined a drum pattern in his mind along with the music, and it raised his level of energy. He was on fire.

( _Waaaaaaaaterrrrrrrrr!_ )

Eventually, the energy finally began to die down, and the music softened along with it, until he decided that he had played enough, and the chord he struck was the final one.

Exhausted from this musical outburst, Tyler collapsed on top of his piano, breathing heavily as the tears dried against his weary eyes and taut jaws. After a minute or so of catching his breath, he scribbled away a few notes in his journal, stood up, and picked up his pills. Before he could make it to the door of the studio, it creaked open, and there stood his mother, staring at him vacantly and alarmingly, with tears forming in her own eyes.

"Tyler..." she gasped, before covering her mouth and allowing the tears to fall as she blinked slowly. Tyler just stared at her, horrified, thinking of all the things that she was going to say to him, what she was going to accuse him of, how she felt about the lyrics of the song he just wrote, and...

...but, then, she hugged him. And she held him for quite some time.

"I got the bill from your doctor's office in the mail a couple of days ago," she whispered into his ear. "You don't have to explain anything. I know. And I love you. And I'm sorry."

Tyler and his mother held each other for what felt like years, and, once they finally pulled apart, they sat on the couch upstairs and talked about everything. About his past issues with self-infliction, his doubting problems with his religion, his depressing thoughts...

And she just listened. Thoughtfully. She made him tea, and they just sat, and they talked. Tyler did most of the talking, as usual. And his mother, mostly, just listened, offering advice when she felt that it was needed or helpful.

She hugged and kissed him more times than he could count before they finally fell asleep.

He slept soundly, humming the song as he drited off into a doze.

_________________________________________________________

"So, you finally let your mother in on our meetings?" Dr. Wells grinned.

"Well, she sort of, found out on her own," Tyler admitted. "But, yes, she knows. And I was honest with her when she asked."

Dr. Wells nodded and squinted happily at Tyler through his glasses. "Ah, excellent! Glad to here it, boy!" He pushed his glasses up, as he so often had to do. "Although, I am curious, and I have to ask, how, exactly, did she find out."

Tyler shrugged his shoulders and smiled ever so slightly to himself as his eyes traveled to his side. "She me singing a song I wrote."

Dr. Well's eyes widened with excitement. "A song!" he exclaimed. "How exciting! You've been busy, huh?"

Tyler, actually bothering to make eye contact with his doctor this time, concured. "Indeed," he sighed. "I wrote it all about the sand and water stuff I told you about."

"I see," Dr. Wells continued to smile widely. "Well, for now, at least, would you say that you've found your purpose? Or, your water, as you would probably put it?"

Tyler - the addict with the pen - sat silently, shrugging his shoulders yet again. But he was sure, now more than ever, that he knew the answer to that question, this time.


End file.
